The Siren. Tiffany Reisz
or people who were not chronic insomniacs—were at home in bed. Maybe she was a student, but she looked older. Her laundry was on the spin cycle. She waited to put it in the dryer, idly flipping through the pages of a magazine, her dark hair falling forward on one side of her face, tucked behind an ear on the other.
Taking a chance, he said, “Been sampling at the perfume counter again?”
Looking up in surprise, she said, “How did you know?”
“The girls in my dorm at college. They used to go shopping and put on all the samples at the department stores.” He sniffed in appraisal. “Right now, I’d say you were wearing about four different perfumes.”
“Six,” she said happily. “It gives everyone a headache, but I like it.”
“I like it, too,” he said. “No, really, “ he assured her when she laughed. “I do.” She had a round face and broad cheekbones. Black, gull-winged brows were the only severe note in her face. There was a wrinkle over the left brow, suggesting that she was in the habit of raising it often. Her expression was open and friendly. In a big city, and especially late at night, women stared at him with suspicion, even though he was a regular-looking guy. Five feet ten inches tall, sandy hair, thin lips but a nice smile. Solidly built, though he had heard himself referred to as stocky, a designation he did not particularly mind. Very angular people made him nervous.
“Why are you here?” she asked. “I mean aside from the obvious.”
“Couldn’t sleep,” he said.
“Chronic?” she said.
“Define chronic,” he said. “Why are you here?”
“Pipes froze,” she said. “Then burst. It’s a hellish mess.”
“Sorry,” they both said at the same instant, and then smiled—conspirators.
Her machine whirled to a stop. She transferred the clothes to a dryer, doors gleaming in a long bank, and filled it with quarters. Then she put more quarters in a machine three doors down and started it up again. The still-damp clothing began to tumble slowly, dreamily falling from top to bottom and around again.
“Yours?” he asked.
“No,” she said. “My good deed for the day. People get stingy with the quarters. Then they come back, and it’s late and they want to go home, but their laundry is still wet.”
From a distance, he could catch only a lingering trace of her perfumes: a source of regret. She had closed the lid on the empty washer and was looking at the magazine. “Would you like to take the quiz?” she asked.
“What quiz?” he said.
“The Beauty Magazine quiz,” she said. “Fodder for idiots. But,” she added prosaically, “if you can’t sleep you’ll have to take what you can get.”
“Fine,” he said, standing up. If it meant being near her, he was happy to be fodder.
“Are You a Romantic?” she asked seriously.
“Oh, Jesus,” he said.
She laughed, fishing a pen out of her bag. “I warned you.” He was standing next to her, inhaling the smell of her skin, dense with scent, and the acrid overlay of old detergent and dryer sheets. She leaned her elbows on the washer, pulling the top off the pen with her teeth. “Question one,” she said. “Would you have sex on a first date? Yes or No.”
“Yes,” he said. She made a mark on the page.
“Question two. For your first date would you bring, a) roses, b) daisies, c) orchids, or d) carnations?”
“E,” he said. “All of the above.”
“That’s not an option,” she said, “but I’ll give it to you anyway. Question three. After the first date, you call her in, a) one day, b) three days, c) seven days, or d) three weeks?”
“This is painful,” he said.
“Answer, please,” she said sweetly.
“If it was a good date, I would call her that night. If it was a bad date I wouldn’t call ever.”
She slanted him a look. “Are you trying to fail the quiz? Fine. We’ll call that A.” She marked the appropriate box.
He reached out a hand and brushed back her hair, pushing the mass of it over her other shoulder. He breathed her in, happy. “Tell me to stop,” he said quietly. “And I will.”
Her eyes remained downcast on the page. “Don’t stop,” she said. “Question four. You are having a quiet evening at her place when her ex calls, insisting he needs to talk. You, a) shout profanities and storm out, b) get up and make chamomile tea, c) open a fresh package of batteries for her vibrator, or d) announce, ‘It’s him or me babe’—and let her make the choice.”
He ran his hand down her back, a long back, widening into hips. “Did you pay for this?” he asked.
“No,” she said, “I found it under a chair. Which one?”
“Uh…” He struggled to recall the choices. “Next time I find myself in that situation, I’ll try C.” His hand moved past her hips, down to the hem of her dress and below. “Question,” he said. “What are my favorite kind of stockings? Answer: A, thigh-highs.” He knelt down and kissed the exposed skin of her thighs. Continuing upwards and pulling aside the ridiculously tiny piece of material masquerading as underwear, he kissed along the seam of her…a flurry of words presented themselves, none of which seemed quite right. He would affix a name to it later, when he remembered this moment. He licked up and then down, opening her with his tongue. He captured her clit and sucked gently, all his movements holding a certain determination but lacking aggression, as if the words he’d spoken were a kind of vow and not what a man says when he wants to get his hands on a woman. Under his mouth she grew wet and aroused, the smell of a different kind of potency altogether. Her knees flexed. She reached into the capacious bag from which the pen had emerged and handed a condom back to him.
“Don’t stop,” she said. “Question five. You meet her mother for the first time. You say, a) I would have taken you for sisters, b) How do you feel about mother/daughter three-ways? c) Did you have your daughter when you were fifteen? Or d) Your daughter is so intelligent. I see where she gets it from.”
He stared at the condom in his hand, as if considering its various uses. “Okay,” he said. “Here’s how we’re going to work this.” He dragged his basket of laundry closer, angling it in front of him. “Keep your head down and no one can see you from outside. I will appear to be here alone, folding my laundry.”
“Right,” she said, “but you need to answer question five.”
He listened to her repeat the options while he opened the condom and rolled it on. “You are making this up,” he said through his teeth, positioning the head of his cock against her body and spreading her open with his fingers. He pushed inside, closing his eyes in the instant of hot, sweet invasion. She made a funny sound, a low squeal of satisfaction.
“You can read it for yourself later,” she gasped, “but answer the question.”
“D,” he said and did his utmost to move in such a way that question six would be obliterated from her mind. He spread his palms across her lower back under her dress, caressing the smooth skin. Then he stilled.
“Please don’t stop now,” she said.
He fidgeted with the basket. “There’s someone at the door,” he said, trying not to move his lips. He draped a button-down shirt across her back and started folding it clumsily. Only the hitch in her breathing gave away her agitation. She moved a little, tightening around him. A blonde woman stuck her head in, squinting at one of the dryers. “Not quite done,” he called to her inanely, an odd expression on his face, but she gave him a little wave and left.
The sidewalk was deserted.